Chosen
by janesrose
Summary: Kaybased.  What if Christine had reacted differently the night Erik played his Don Juan?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: If it's familar, it belongs to someone else. I own no part of either POTO or Kay's Phantom.

**A/N: Thanks to my beta, Skoteinos Metafiezomai, for all her help (check out Desert Roses). Anything good is due to her comments and suggestions, while all errors, mistakes, or just plain poor writing are my own. **

He listened intently as his fingers moved over the black and white keys on the piano, guiding Christine through her scales. Satisfied, let them rest; both her upper and lower registers sounded normal, as did her tone and pitch. He briefly considered offering up a prayer, but really saw no reason to assume some mythical sky-fairy had anything to with Christine's recovery. No, that was the result of his skill and a rare turn of luck. Christine, on the other hand, was almost certain to be praying now. Her weight shifted from small one foot to the other, her nervousness increasing as he glared out her, deliberately drawing out the silence to increase her unease. _Good, let her worry_, he thought._ Perhaps she will learn to be more careful_. Only when she unconsciously lifted a hand to her mouth to bite her nails did he allow himself to give her a slight nod, and then only because he could not abide that particular habit of hers. Such behavior was suited for a child in the nursery, not a diva.

Relieved, Christine sighed, her shoulders slumping underneath the blue wool of her dress. _Thank you_, she prayed. _Thank _you. She promised herself she would say an extra decade of the Rosary tonight, even though she had refused to consider that her voice might be damaged—after all, she'd only sung over a little cold. But she'd grown frightened as Erik coldly guided her through the scales, once, twice, three times. His attentive ear would catch even the slightest change, even those that would pass unnoticed by anyone else. _He knows my voice better than anyone, better, perhaps, than even me_, she thought. She shuddered, imagining his anger if she had not passed his inspection.

"Perhaps now you will think twice before risking your instrument to please a certain young vicomte, even if he does bring you flowers in invitations to supper," he snarled, rising from the piano. He knew she was enamored of the boy—Erik refused to think of that pup as a man—but he hadn't thought she would endanger her voice just to impress him.

Christine flinched at the malice in his tone, dropping her eyes to study the intricate pattern of the Persian carpet beneath her feet. _Some of us do not have the luxury of doing as we please_, she thought. Erik would never understand that she'd sung not for Raoul but for the managers; with Carlotta's animosity towards her since the gala, she could not anger them and hope to stay employed. As much as she treasured her "instrument" as he called it, she liked having a roof over her head and food on her table. She wanted to defend herself but held her tongue instead, opting to cross her arms over her chest, giving him a look he could only describe as obstinate.

Erik noticed change her expression with concern, regretting his outburst. She'd given him many mulish looks during her convalescence, and they made him uneasy. At first, he had believed her sour disposition was the result of her illness. Suddenly he wasn't so sure. Now that she was well again, she should be her usual docile self, asking for his forgiveness, assuring him she would not repeat her mistakes. That was the Christine he knew. The obstinate girl before him unsettled him—not only the change in her inexplicable, it annoying. _I would not have to be so harsh to her if it were not for that boy_, he fumed. Erik only wanted to please her--could she not she that? Things could be so much better between then if only she would listen to him and rid herself of that fop she considered a suitor. He would no longer have to reprimand her like a wayward child, and they could go return to their usual pastimes of music and reading. _I give you the music. He gives you flowers and pretty compliments. _Granted the boy could show her a pretty face each day, but he, Erik, could teach her to win the hearts of the world. What was a face compared to that?

"Perhaps you would care for a lesson this evening?" he asked, hoping to lighten her mood and worm his way back into her good graces.

"Yes, please, if you think it wise…" Christine frowned at the sudden change in Erik's manner, a tiny line appearing between her dark brows. _He can go from coldness to warmth so quickly_. Grudgingly, she unfolded her arms and willed the exasperation from her face. _If he is willing to be pleasant, I should do the same_. And Erik's company was very enjoyable when he decided to make it so.

"Nothing too strenuous, I think." He hesitated, busying himself with a pile of scores he'd arranged only that morning. "I…I have a surprise for you."

Christine eyed him, tilting her head slightly. Erik seemed shy, almost deferent, not his normal authoritative self at all.

"What is it?"

"Change into a warmer gown and fetch your cloak and gloves. I have some business to attend to," he waved his hand, "just a small matter. Be ready when I return."

"I will be". He watched as she went to her room, smiling in anticipation, and then settled himself at his desk.

_My good Messieurs,_

_I am pleased to inform you Mlle. Daaè has made a complete recovery. Expect her at tomorrow's rehearsals prepared for the role of Margaruite. The audience will no doubt be pleased she is once again replacing La Carlotta. I do trust you will heed my wishes. It would be a terrible misfortune if an accident were to befall our managers during such an important production._

_I also find it necessary to remind you my salary is due on the 10__th__ of each month, as you have been remiss of late. One must be scrupulous in their business dealings; word quickly spreads when gentlemen fail to meet their fiscal obligations. _

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

Satisfied, Erik sealed the letter with his usual black seal and quickly donned his cloak and his fedora. He swiftly made his way to Box 5, and dropped it in the armchair, where Madame Giry would find in the morning. As he made his way back through the passageways, he could hear the buzz of voices as the denizens of the Opera prepared for that night's performance. He listened with only half an ear, not wanting to keep Christine waiting any longer than necessary.

"She's no better than she should be, if you catch my meaning," a voice piped from the large dressing room shared by the younger ballet rats.

Erik smirked under his mask. Many of the girls at the Opera fit that description.

"I mean, just disappearing without a word the way she does, then coming back like nothing's happened," the voice continued. "I swear her head's as big a Carlotta's. And where does she go, anyway?"

Erik froze. They could only be talking about…

"She seems nice enough, Lucille--" a voice began.

"I'd be nice too if I had the Vicomte de Chagny for my lover," someone snickered.

Christine. _His Christine_. Had the Vicomte suggested he was her lover? Did everyone know about this? _You fool of course they know. You knew and you live five stories below the ground, idiot. You think a gaggle of vapid girls won't notice a titled young man in their midst?_ Still, such insolence could not be ignored.

"Marie! You'd best not let Madame hear you. And I heard she's been chosen by the Opera Ghost, and that's where she disappears to. He just pops ups and takes her," fingers snapped, "just like that."

"She can't be with the Vicomte," someone else interjected. "Last night he was here looking for her. When she didn't sing, he left at intermission. Carlotta was frightfully angry about it."

"Well, wherever she is, I feel sorry for her," someone sighed. "I mean, she has no friends at all really, except maybe Meg Giry. And Meg says she never talked to her that much."

"Always off in her own little world, where she's better than everyone else."

"Girls!" A cane rapped sharply on the door. "It is time."

_Yes_, he thought, _it is_. An idea struck him and he glanced at his pocketwatch. Surely Christine wouldn't mind waiting just a few minutes longer…

As he poled himself across the lake, Erik could not help but feel extremely satisfied at the surprise he'd left in the girls' dressing room. It was simple, effective, and had been artfully arranged in a matter of minutes. Simply put, it was an ideal reminder of exactly who was in charge of this opera house. The smarter of the little rats would heed his warning and guard their tongues in the future. The less intelligent ones…well, he made no promises.

When he returned to the house, Christine was waiting for him in the parlor. He noted her cloak with approval. She'd needed a heavier one and dark blue velvet he'd selected complimented her pale skin. _Perhaps I should have a burgundy made as well_, he mused. Usually, Christine made a point of not taking any of the clothing he'd provided when she returned above—he'd never understood her reasoning, but perhaps he could persuade her to make an exception for the cloak.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting. My business took slightly longer than expected. Are you ready?"

She rose, nodding. "Erik, is everything all right?"

"Certainly. Do not trouble yourself. After you, my dear," he said, ushering her out the door, and leading her down the passageway towards the Rue Scribe entrance.

"Won't you tell me where we are going?"

Erik shook his head "Patience, my dear…a virtue you would do well to cultivate." He heard Christine huff behind him at the implied reprimand. "Ah—here we are." He swung open the gate and they emerged to find a waiting carriage.

Christine turned to him, her brown eyes wide under her hood. "How…how did you do this?"

"I am not a total recluse, my dear," he chuckled, opening the door for her. "I assure you my travel arrangements are as mundane as any others…or they have been, since I've put the dragon out to pasture."

Her eyes widened. "Dragon? You had a dragon?"

Erik settled in opposite her. "Move on," he directed. "Yes, of course," he said carelessly, as if everyone Paris had a dragon. "Poor old fellow simply wasn't up to the job anymore. Rheumatism, you know…quite hard on the wings…" His took on that hypnotic quality, weaving a spell around them in chilly interior.

Christine closed her eyes and waited for him to draw her into a world where fantastical creatures existed in flesh and bone simply because his voice called them into being. _I could follow that voice to the ends of the earth_, she thought. _Why is that?_ Her eyes popped open as another thought struck her._ What if one day he chose not bring me back? _For the first time, a Christine tested her will against the power of Erik's voice, holding his gaze as he summoned her into the mysterious world he was creating. Within moments he fell silent and turned away, withdrawing into himself.

She looked down at her hands as they nervously fiddled with the bows on her gloves. She ought to be relieved she was able to resist the lure of his siren's voice, but looking back up at the blank expanse of his mask, she could only feel regret. The night air seemed to grow colder and she shivered despite her warm lap robe. She wanted to say something, reassure him somehow and restore the ease between them, but all of her words seemed inadequate.

Erik stared numbly at the passing blocks. _She refused me_, he thought. Strange, he'd always thought Nadir would be the first to resist his voice. Christine had never before been strong enough to defy him; she was always looking for some sort of guidance. She was changing somehow, he was certain of it. _I do not know what to do with her._ Panic rose in him. _How will I keep her now? My voice was the only thing that brought her to me. Without it, I am nothing to her. She will leave me and never come back…_He regretted bringing her out at all, and considered ordering the driver to turn back.

They rode in the uncomfortable silence until they reached the park on Bois de Boulogne, now locked in the depths of winter. The snow reflected the light of the full moon, illuminating the winding paths that had been cleared for the enjoyment of the park's daytime visitors with surprising brightness.

Christine stepped down from the carriage, smiling, and drew a deep breath. Erik joined her, turning briefly to speak to the driver. With a graceful motion of his hand, he indicated they might walk.

They took a path leading down towards the lake. "I thought you might enjoy some fresh air," he said, awkwardly. _Oh to walk with her like this in the daylight!_

"Thank you." He nodded, acknowledging the sincerity in her voice. They continued in companionable quiet, their breath preceding them in little pale clouds.

_Strange_, she thought._ Our best times come with both of us stop trying so hard._ Like when they sang, or read together. Or when they simply walked, the layers of snow muffling the sound of their footsteps.

"I love that smell," Christine said softly.

"What smell?"

"The smell of cold, of…," she breathed deeply, "snow."

"I was not aware one could smell snow," he responded dryly.

"Oh but you can—like you can smell water." Her small face was serious. "You don't believe me?"

"I have little experience of such things." His voice was bitter, and Christine regretted speaking at all. Erik understood many things beyond the grasp of most, but could not claim knowledge that most people took for granted. _You would think he never played outside as a child_. Then she remembered he had not.

Impulsively, she stooped down and scooped up a bit of snow, shaping it into a small ball. _Do I dare?_ Erik seemed lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to her. She let him draw two, then three paces ahead of her, before throwing the snowball. It landed perfectly between his shoulder blades.

Christine crowed with triumph, but faster than she thought possible, he whirled to face her, reaching for something under his cape as it fanned out around him. She immediately sobered, frightened.

"Erik, I'm sorry, I only meant to…" _Stupid girl! _she chided.

He looked down at the scatter of snow at his feet, then back at her. His eyes glowed in the blankness of his face, his stillness adding to his air of malevolence. She had thought him frightening when he raged at her the night she unmasked him, but she found his stillness far more terrifying: at least when he shouted she had some idea as to what he was thinking.

"It just that it's been so long since I've played in the snow," she babbled. No move was made towards her, but she found herself backing up anyway. "Please don't be angry—I didn't mean any harm. Forgive me. I forgot myself. I won't do it again…"

"You were…playing?" He sounded puzzled. "With me?" _No one's ever done such a thing before…_

"It was silly. Forgive me, please." Christine watched nervously as Erik bent, and with great care scooped up the snow she'd thrown at him. He studied it a moment as it lay in his gloved hand, then his fingers began to curl around it.

_Oh no_…She picked up her skirts and turned to run, but she was too slow; Erik's snowball tagged her back. She grinned at him over her shoulder.

"So is it to be war?"

"Indeed, mademoiselle, it is." He strode towards her.

Christine ran across the lawn to a small stand of trees, taking shelter behind one. He was faster than her; she could not hope to outrun him, but perhaps she could keep him at bay while she fashioned her arsenal. She peeped around her tree.

"Eek!" She pulled back as a cold ball passed inches from her face. "You missed."

"A minor error. I assure you it won't happen again." He stood out in the open, each fist full of snow. _He must feel very sure of himself_, she thought.

Christine gathered her balls into a fold of her cloak, and dashed to another tree. As she ran, she hurled ball after ball, pelting Erik relentlessly. His two firings found their mark, but Christine had more firepower and a surprisingly good aim. She ducked out of sight and knelt down, preparing herself for another round. She waited for him to call out a sarcastic comment, but he was silent. She cautiously looked out.

He was gone. Christine cocked her head, listening for the slight crunch of boots on snow. As she expected, all was quiet. She straightened and looked around, knowing she would not be able to take him by surprise again.

_What was that?_ There was a faint melody coming from somewhere to her left. He was trying to trick her, draw her out. Christine smiled.

"No more," she panted, throwing up her hands. "I surrender." Erik rejoined her on the path as she struggled to get her breath back. She noted enviously he seemed as collected as ever. "But then you're not wearing a corset," she grumbled.

"Pardon me?"

"Oh," she shook her head. "It was nothing."

Erik nodded, still surprised she'd taken the initiative to begin a game with him, as if he were a normal man_. As if I was her friend_. She'd enjoyed this outing more than he had hoped. They walked in silence, Christine studying the snow-covered landscaped while Erik gazed at her from under the shelter of his hat. Her cheeks were still red and her hair had begun to straggle around her face.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Christine asked softly. "The lakes, the trees…"

He started, having been thinking the same about her. "What you see is a sham. This is not real nature—she would never be so orderly. The entire park wears a mask, trying to make itself something it is not."

Christine paused, looking back towards the lake. "'Give a man a mask and he'll tell you the truth,'" she quoted softly. _Why did I say that?_ She kept her eyes focused on the path as they continued walking, aware of Erik's studious gaze.

"So you are not opposed to illusion, then? You would not consider it," he paused, "the same as deception?" he whispered.

They reached the carriage and Erik pulled open the door. With a slowness that would indicate reluctance in anyone else, he offered her a black-gloved hand. Golden eyes met brown. As she looked into his eyes, Christine understood intuitively if she took the hand he offered, their relationship would be irrevocably changed. She would not be a child, a pupil, to him any longer. She would be what? _A woman?_

Looking down again at his hand, she remembered the strength she'd seen when he played, worked in his laboratory, poled the gondola. She also remembered how his hands moved with such grace and gentleness over Ayesha's back that she could not bear to watch, and how it had felt when he lightly stroked her hair one evening while he believed she slept.

_This is what he wants, a simple touch…am I ready to give this to him…do I want to give this to him? _She remembered her father's ready caressed and kisses. _To live without touch…_She had done so for six months and found the isolation and loneliness beyond bearing. Erik had lived that way for a lifetime.

Almost of its own accord, her hand began to rise.

"Lovely lady!" a voice cried. "Dear lady of the night, won't you join us instead? We've got a jilted young man in need of your womanly comforts."

Erik and Christine sprang apart as another carriage rapidly approached.

"Not so loud, Edouard," a voice hissed. Christine frowned, her stomach flipping in such a manner she was sure it must rival the feats of the acrobats she'd heard about. _I know that voice_…

"Oh, come on, it's not like we'll scare her away. Don't be so nervous. So your slutty little cocktease dropped you. What you need is a good lay with an honest whore, and we've just found one. Come on darling, we're far better company. Driver, pull up right over there."

"Get in," Erik hissed.

Christine clamored inside, ripping her skirt as it caught in the step. Erik followed, slammed the door behind them.

"Oh, come on, you little slut," the voice called again. "There's more than enough of us to go around and our purses are full."

"Drive." Christine cringed in the corner. She'd never heard Erik sound so furious, not even on that terrible night she'd removed his mask. The carriage started off with a lurch. Christine was thrown forward, and a movement from the coach opposite caught her eye. A man's body was flung out, landing on the stones with a muffled thump. As he got to his knees, he lifted his head, looking directly at Christine.

"Go get her," the voice called.

_Raoul_. Christine fell back, the earlier joy of the evening forgotten.

"Christine!" He'd seen her. "Christine, wait!"

Christine look up into Erik's golden eyes, shining with malice. "Your vicomte has deplorable taste in friends," he said coldly. _And pastimes_, he silently added. He didn't trust himself to speak further, longing to yank the whelp off the cobblestones and beat him to a sniveling, bloody mess. Why the boy would be out whoring while he had Christine's heart…_He_ _does not deserve her_, Erik raged to himself. _I would never…_

Christine looked down at her lap as Raoul's cries faded. "He's not _my_ vicomte," she whispered.

Erik's inelegant snort told her he was unconvinced by her statement. She looking again at him, noticing the way his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. Anger rose from him the way steam rose from boiling water. He was sinking into one of his foul moods, and she did not know how to stop it.

_Do you think I'm not angry as well?_ she thought, returning her gaze to the seat. _That was my fiancée out looking for a…who let his friends call me a…_the blood rushed to her cheeks. Of course, Erik did not know that. _I've done everything possible to keep that so-called engagement hidden from him_. She refused to let herself wonder why she was more concerned about Erik right now than the betrothed she'd left laying in the street, obliviously the worse for drink.

They finished the ride back the Rue Scribe gate in silence, Erik working his fists in agitation while Christine looked out the window, at the seat, anywhere but at him, the intimate connection they'd almost made earlier lost. The quiet grew ominous as Erik stalked down the passage and angrily untied the boat. Once they reached the house, Christine carefully took off her cloak and gloves, watching nervously as Erik stalked before the fire.

Taking her usual place beside the piano, she waited expectantly, hoping he would forget his anger once he became absorbed in her lesson. He noticed her and the corners of his mouth turned down as he frowned under his mask. "Why are you—oh, your lesson." He shook his head and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. "Forgive me, I had forgotten."

Christine smiled shyly. Removing his cape and carelessly tossing it and his hat into the armchair, he commanded "You select the piece; you deserve a reward for your patience the past few days."

"The duet from Rigoletto, then?" It would let Erik vent some of his rage…

Erik looked at her in askance. "If you like." He took his place at the piano, and the pair stormed through the duet, ending with a flourish. As the last note faded, his fingers fell from the keys and his shoulders hunched. There was a defeated character to the lines around his mouth, and for the first time, Christine found it easy to believe that he was, as he had claimed, old enough to be her father.

"You've done very well, Christine." He looked up at her. "There's little more I can teach you. You would grace any stage in the world now. How proud I am of you…" _This is what I wanted, isn't it?_ he thought. _Why isn't it enough?_

Christine bowed her head to hide her tears; it was easier to endure his criticism than his praise.

_She'll leave me now_, he thought, looking down again at his hands. _I have nothing else to give her_.

Each stayed quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Christine broke the silence. "Would you sing for me?"

"Why?" His tone was quiet, but his eyes held an expression she couldn't fathom.

_Because I cannot bear your silence_. _Because I cannot bear your pain._ "Please?" was all she said.

Reluctantly, he began to play one of his Romany melodies, moving one to a Swedish folk song she'd shared with him months ago.

As he finished, an idea struck him. "Would you like to try something from Aida? The final scene, I think." The words sprang from his lips and he wished he could take them back.

_No, I can't ask her to do that_.

_Why not? _his insidious inner voice asked smoothly. _It isn't as if she'll be coming back now anyway—not now that she has what she wants. Remember in the carriage?_ _You're losing her anyway._

"I've always thought that scene should be done in a wedding dress," he continued. "Something about a young lover choosing to die rather than live without her beloved…"

When would he learn that inner voice always lead to trouble?

"It's such a beautiful story," Christine murmered. "But a wedding dress?"

"There's one in your wardrobe with the other costumes. Of course," he shrugged nonchalantly, "I understand if you'd rather not. After all, I'm not sure you're emotionally ready for such a part. It does call for a certain maturity." He avoided her eyes. "Perhaps it would be best if you simply went to bed. You must be tired." He had not intended to push her, but his baiting words slipped out, and he knew she would do as he asked now.

_You can refuse, Christine._

_Shouldn't you get to see her in that dress just once? _The little voice argued. _There's really no harm in it, and you went to such trouble to have it made_.

"I'm ready," she argued, annoyed that Erik insulted her when he was the one who suggested she try the role in the first place. "Of course I'm ready, she said stubbornly."

"If you say so." He said, shrugging again. "It makes little difference to me."

_That's not true_, she thought. But she held her tongue, as she always did, and went to change.

There was something unsettling about Erik's suggested costume, but she wasn't sure exactly what; it nagged at her like a dream she couldn't quite remember. With the mask covering so much of his face, Christine had learned to read the subtle clues of his body to gauge his feelings. The tense set of his lips and shoulders told her the dress wasn't merely a prop. For some reason, it mattered it him that she wear it. She opened her wardrobe and pushed her dresses to the side.

_There it is_. The dress had been wedged into the corner of her wardrobe, behind the other costumes almost as if she wasn't meant to see it. The tiny beads on the bodice glittered as she pulled it out and held it up. It was a beautiful gown (for seemed sacrareligious to refer to such a creation as merely a dress), designed to make the one who wore it feel like a beloved princess, the way every bride should feel on her wedding day.

No, not a princess…this gown was meant for a grown woman…a queen.

_So it was for you then, the dress and the ring…Surely God in his wisdom has chosen you as he once chose Our Lady… _

Then words of the strange little man she'd met at the Rue Scribe gate came back to her. Her knees buckled, and she sank down onto the stool before her dressing table. She could almost believe the dress was a costume. _An expensive well-made costume_.

_Why would he have something like this to use just as a prop_? _And why a ring?_ Granted, he wanted the best in all things, and the clothes he provided her were well-tailored and fine like his own. But this…

_It is too much…_Christine's fingers shook as she undid her buttons and slid the dress over her head, the white satin cool against her skin. She managed to fasten the gown and turned to look at her reflection.

She was beautiful, her long hair looking almost black against the pale fabric. The gown clung to her slight figure, accentuating each curve. The girl who had romped in the snow only an hour ago was gone, replaced by an elegant stranger Christine wasn't sure she was ready to meet.

A small finger of apprehension teased her. Was it truly wise to appear before him in this gown? She could simply take it off and tell Erik she was tired. That would be the easiest course. _But he has chosen me_, she thought, staring at her reflection with wide eyes. _Do I dare refuse?_ The gown seemed a way of voicing a question he was too shy to ask outright.

_Dear God, what do I do?_ Frantically, Christine's mind searched for options. She could simply stay in her room and avoid the matter entirely. Or she could go out and finish her lesson. But would that mean to him, once he saw her wearing the wedding dress he'd selected for her? And in the park he'd had offered her his hand; she had almost accepted it, would have accepted it, if they had not been interrupted. Had there been a symbolism there she had missed?

_Perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe the dress is just a prop, as he said, and this is all my overactive imagination_. _Surely my ego is not so large I must assume he wants to marry me_.

_I can do this_, she reassured herself, examining her reflection. _Just like in the carriage tonight_. She breathed deeply, in, then out, the way he'd taught he to steady her nerves. The image in the mirror looked confident enough, after all. That woman looked like a match for Erik's strength.

That woman also had another's man ring dangling from her neck. She hurriedly undid the clasp of her necklace, dropping it the drawer of her dressing table. Somehow, it didn't seem right to wear it now, and she didn't particularly want to anyway after the events in the Bois.

She crossed herself once, then opened the door and stepped into the parlor. Erik was standing beside the piano, his back to her, studying one of several sheet of music he held in his hands.

"Erik?"

He turned. _Oh dear God, this was a mistake_, he thought, dropping the score he held. Still, he couldn't take his eyes from her. He knew she would be beautiful, but he had not known the dress would leave him on fire for the wedding night, when she would slip that gown from her shoulders and offer her pliant body to her husband arms…

And they said a girl's imagination took her to the altar and no further.

Christine came forward and bent to retrieve the papers.

"Leave it!" He rasped, his voice devoid of its usual melody. "From the recitative " '_My heart…' _"

"But aren't you--" she gestured to the piano.

"Do not argue!"

She glared at him. This was not fair; he should at least give her a guiding chord.

He advanced on her. "Now!"

"My heart foreseeing your condemnation, into this tomb…" she sang.

"Enough," he gasped, wrapping his arms around his thin body. "No more. Go to your room!"

"What? Why? Arent' you--"

"Go, you…damn it, go now Christine," he panted, rocking himself back and forth. "Go now and bolt your door."

She hesitated, shocked at hearing him curse.

"But--"

"NOW!" The gleam in his eyes terrified her. She picked up her skirts and fled.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: First things first...I realized that I posted the last chapter without making a few things clear. I've taken a bit a a liberty with Erik's age, making him a bit younger, as you will see below. Consequently, Erik does not have a heart condition. I also forgot to credit Oscar Wilde with Christine's quote (the "If you give a man a mask" line). Thank you Mr. Wilde. I owe a big thank you (and some jeweled weaponry) to my beta, Skoteinos Metamfiezomai. Apologies for the delay in updating, you know how troublesome real life can get. Ok, I think that covers it.**

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Christine slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, trembling more with anger than with fear. _How dare he?_ she raged. How _dare_ he goad her into this farce, then dismiss her in the midst of his tantrum like…like a wayward schoolgirl! She kicked back against the door in frustration, hoping he could hear her. If he could storm, so could she, although she had not seen him so angry before. There was an air of danger about him now that she had never before seen.

_Bolt your door_…A series of small, fresh scratches caught her attention, marring the marred the glossy finish of the door. An intricate series of heavy bolts had recently been installed; they had not been there a week ago. _How did I not notice these before now?_ she wondered. She must have been distracted by her illness. The shiny fastenings seemed to mock her, and her fingers trembled as she slid the bolts home.

_When did he put bolts on the door? Why? _A simple latch had been the only hardware on the door. Erik had never bothered with a lock, since during her first days in his home, she could not even find the front door; he had seen no reason to lock her in her room. Christine had never really been bothered by it, as he had never presumed to approach her. Now, staring at the bolts gleaming back at her, she was suddenly afraid. Obviously something had changed, if he saw the need to provide her with the means to lock him out.

Sobbing, she backed away from the door. _Never again_, she vowed to herself, frantically unfastening the dress. Her fingers were as inept on the buttons as they had been on the bolts. _I will never come back here again_. The satin burned her skin. She couldn't get the hated thing off fast enough. It had quickly gone from a queen's robe to a reviled set of rags. Christine yanked at the bodice, ignoring the beadwork she'd admired only moments before. Some of the buttons popped; she never heard them bounce across the polished wood floor. The sleeves ripped as she yanked her arms free. Wiggling the gown past her hips, she kicked out of it. Her petticoats tangled around her legs, making her stumble clumsily, so she untied the strings and tossed them aside.

_No more_. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her nose was running. _Strange_, she thought as she finally realized she was crying. Christine fell to her knees and tried tear the dress to pieces, but despite the damage she'd already done to the seams, the pieces remain stubbornly intact. She threw it into the corner and collapsed across the bed, ignoring the liquid dribbling across her face.

_He doesn't deserve tears. He isn't worthy of them, the…the…__**cad**_. It was the worst thing she could think to call him at the moment. _I never should have…never…_This only brought more tears- she didn't even _know _what she had _done _to make him react with such violence!

Gradually, her sobs quieted, and she buried her face in the soft counterpane. Her anger cooled somewhat, leaving her achingly confused about what had just happened. Erik could swing from praise to coldness with a swiftness that left her baffled, and she had not the courage to question him about it. Christine could not endure his wrath, his _displeasure_. It frightened her.

_But it is more than that, isn't it?_ a small, treacherous voice inside her mind asked.

"Stop," she whispered, as if the voice were something outside of herself. _I may be a coward, but I refuse to think such things_.

She rolled over. _Tomorrow…tomorrow I'm leaving, and I'll never come back. If I can simply exist this one night… I simply cannot continue this farce any longer._

Instantly, Christine was assaulted by a hammer of guilt: Erik threatened to kill Raoul if she abandoned ever abandoned him. But Raoul had not remained faithful to her, so how much loyalty did she owe him now? She would never have suspected that her old friend could harbor such base desires. In her mind, she could still see Raoul clamoring up from the cobblestones, calling after her, and she groaned aloud, turning her head side to side to erase the vision.

Unbidden, the image of Erik chasing her through the snow came to her. He had trusted her with his secrets, _given her his music_. The blue and gold canopy seemed reproachful. _I owe him honesty, at least. I should tell him why I won't come back…_

_Have I ever been truly honest with him?_ Tears rose again to her eyes. _With Raoul?_ She groaned, and rolled back onto her stomach. _I have done wrong all this time. And because of my weakness—my duplicity—I've hurt us all._ _Please, God, I never meant to…_

Christine sat up and put her head in her hands. She noticed music coming from the parlor and wrapped a pillow around her head to block the sound.

_I don't want to listen anymore. I can't listen to his music anymore and hope to stay sane_.

The pillow was a sorry barrier to the sounds emanating from the piano, and she sat back up, listening closely. The piece was unfamiliar, yet she instantly recognized it as Erik's work. _Part of his Don Juan?_ Something about is called to her, spoke to something deep within her, although she wasn't sure exactly what. She closed her eyes, leaning her head to one side as she listened intently. _What is this?_

Christine was confused, and tried to identify the different emotions to music represented. _Passion—that is certain…longing…violence…perhaps? But not like a-_

Her eyes snapped open and she gasped. _Oh, dear God_. Her fingers unconscious clasped the crucifix dangling from her neck. She did not have the words to describe the music, but she was sure of the story the music told. It was the same one the ballet rats whispered, the one men and women told when they slipped into the plentiful shadows around the opera house. The one condemned by her Church unless the proper sacraments had been performed, and even then…

_I should not be hearing this_. Christine squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will away the sound. _I must find some way to…_But she couldn't ignore it, couldn't make it go away, so she sat and listened, despite her better judgment.

The music made her bold, curious. Her hands shook as she stepped in front of the pier glass and unlaced her corset. She pulled her chemise over her head, blushing, and untied the strings of her drawers. Closing her eyes as they fell to the floor, she rolled down her stockings. She'd never seen herself completely undressed before.

Taking a breath to steady her nerves, she opened her eyes, studying her reflection. Was this how she would appear to a lover? _**To Erik**?_ She turned away in shame at the thought, the blood rushing to her cheeks. How could she think such things? Regardless of what Raoul had done, he was still her fiancée. No other man should be in her thoughts, unless she truly was a harlot.

Christine shook her head and turned back to the mirror. Neither man was there with her, so she need not think of them now. She was only looking at herself to satisfy her own curiosity. It might be immodest, but it had nothing to do with them.

Her breasts were small, that she knew, thanks to some of the snide comments from some of the other girls at the Conservatory. Her belly was flat and her waist was small, leading to a slight curve over her narrow hips. At least her legs were shapely, she thought, twisting critically from side to side. Her buttocks were nicely rounded, and the skin of her back was smooth, she noticed with satisfaction. She was not voluptuous or beautiful, but she was…passable. While she wished she had the hourglass figure so embraced by fashion, she was pleased her appearance was not worse. She had seen some of the other chorus girls with angry red pimples on their backs, large birthmarks, or jiggling rolls of fat, and felt guilty at her relief her flesh was firm and unmarked.

_I'm not ugly_, she thought. _I'm not pretty either, but_—

She stopped and stared at the mirror in dismay. _My face…_ She had the body of a woman, albeit a slender one, but her face…

_My face belongs to a child_. Her eyes were wide, frightened, and her mouth was slightly open, like that of a child who takes a deep breath before they start to cry. Christine rubbed her hands over her eyes roughly, hoping to somehow replace their childish expression with something, _anything_ else.

Her eyes stayed closed. What was it her mother had once said about mirrors?

_Sometimes, when you are off guard, a mirror will show you not what you are but what you can become…_Suddenly Christine missed her mother very much, knowing she could have helped her sort through her muddled feelings… that's what mothers did. After so long, she could not remember her mother's face. Strange that she could remember her mother saying that—she could even remember standing near her dressing table, feeling very important as she handed Mama her pins...she must have been feeling usually well to be out of bed. She had pinched Christine's nose and laughed.

Christine sighed and turned away, not bothering to look at the mirror again. It seemed she was destined to always remain a child. _Just as Papa would have wished._ She wondered if he had ever imagined her married, her children sitting at his feet as he played on his violin. He would never see them, if indeed she ever bore any. _Would things be different if Mama hadn't died?_ It was a question she'd asked herself over and over again, but could never answer. A feeling of loss settled over her; she'd mourned the past, missed both of her parents desperately in the present, but had not thought of how that loss would continue to haunt her into the future. Fresh tears threatened, but she shoved them away. She did not want to think of anything more tonight.

She bent to retrieve her chemise and then, by accident, caught her reflection.

A woman looked back at her. Christine stood still, barely breathing, lest she frighten away the apparition before her. She blinked once, and the image vanished, replaced with her usual self. Christine straightened and approached the glass.

_You see what you can become_.

Suddenly she understood something else as well. Whether woman or child looked back at her from the mirror, whether she reveled in Erik's darkness or walked in the light, it did not matter.

She was Christine, and her soul was her own. And that knowledge was a great gift.

The music had gone quiet. Christine hurriedly pulled on her nightgown and wrapper. She had to see him, to thank him, though she didn't know how she would find the words.

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Erik sat slumped over the piano. He'd sworn to himself he'd never play that with her in the house, _never_. The stillness from Christine's room spoke volumes. He pictured her cowering in the corner beside her dainty bed, tremulously watching and listening for the slightest sound at the door.

Never had he imagined the sight of her would affect him that way. The countless fantasies he'd had of her coming to him in that gown should have fortified him somewhat, made him immune. It was only to be a game of pretend, like the many others they'd played before. He would be the expectant groom, and she would be his loving bride. It would be acting, nothing more. Just acting.

Erik was wrong. It was not often he so grievously miscalculated. There had been no pretense—he had wanted her. He, Erik, had wanted her, Christine, with an intensity he had felt only a few times before. The same intensity had led to violent death in the past; now it turned against Christine. He wanted to posses her, devour her; her consent was immaterial.

Praying the sound of her voice would summon the part of him that had been her angel, he commanded her to sing. It did not work. He couldn't really hear her, with his mind full of her curves, her softness. Erik swore under his breath. He had even imagined he could smell her the way an animal smells its mate, a mix of lavender and warm welcoming flesh.

Erik leapt from the piano, disgusted with by his weakness. The piano was a weapon now, instead of the one place of peace in the house. His small packet of morphine called to him from its place of honor beside his coffin, but he refused to answer. He did not deserve that sweet oblivion. _Perhaps just a little, just enough to— _He quashed the desperate addict's voice. Staying sober, aware of the crime he had committed was to be his punishment, but he also knew he was not strong enough to resist the morphine's siren song. Very well—he must leave the house. Settling his mask securely against his face, he turned and grabbed his cloak from where he'd tossed it over the easy chair.

He jumped back as if he'd been faced with all the demons of hell. Christine watched him quietly from her bedroom door, her arms wrapped around herself. Erik turned away and hastily gathered the cloak around him.

"Where are you going?" She took one halting step into the parlor. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Erik grunted stumbled towards the door, his usually graceful stride deserting him in his desperation to put distance between them.

"I wish you would stay," she continued, keeping her voice low. She moved to the piano and stretched a hand out towards it. Erik hesitated anxiously, but she did not touch the score scattered across the instrument. Instead, she let her hand fall and leaned forward, gently blowing out the candles. "There's something I would like to say to you."

Erik felt the muscles of his body clench. Was this how he was to atone for the way he had violated her earlier? He wanted to run, run from the house and never return. Never look at her again and see all the things he was not, all the things he would never have. He had come dangerously close to hurting her, even raping her, perhaps. _I am due this punishment_, he thought, although it would be the end of the games they had played for so long now. Sighing heavily, nodded once before staggering to his chair, covering his eyes with his hand. He could not bring himself to look at her, but he would stay, although everything in him railed against it. He owed her this. _The morphine would make it easier. Just a little…_

She moved behind him, extinguishing the candles that flickered on the mantle. Her nearness made him even more uncomfortable, and he still imagined he could smell her.

"I realized something tonight," she began, biting her lip.

"Christine," he gulped, "I should never-"

"Don't," she whispered. "Do not apologize. Please, just…just do not say anything now, or I'll lose my courage- and it's fragile enough as it is." She paused, the soft crackle of the dying fire the only sound.

"They—the stagehands…I know they talk about me." Christine drew a deep breath. "They talk about all the girls, I mean. Madame Giry tries to stop them, but…sometimes they do it where we can hear them. They say things like…like what…those," she stopped. She could not call them "gentlemen", even referring to them as "men" seemed insulting. "I never expected to be called those hateful, disgusting things I was called tonight, especially not when…when the man who claimed to love me watched. And when you played…" Christine was uncertain how to continue. She turned her back to Erik and fixed her eyes on the fire, watching the flames dance. She could not speak if she were looking at him.

"I had always thought…that the…the…" she fumbled nervously, "What passes between men and women was repulsive," she rushed the words out, running them together. Christine sighed with relief. _At least the worst part is over. Perhaps_. "But when you played, I realized that perhaps…perhaps…I was wrong. That such things are not…do not have to be…humiliating or degrading. That loving…sharing does not have to make me…it does not mean that I…" she twisted her hands helplessly. She wasn't exactly sure what she was trying to say, but she was sure she should not be speaking to him about it. "I just want you to know that…I'm…I'm grateful. To you, I mean…I'm not sure that if you had not played, I…" She shook her head, lost.

Erik sat stunned. He thought he had anticipated all of her possible reactions to his music: horror, disgust, terror… but it seemed that he had miscalculated once again.

He slowly turned to look at her but she heard him stir, and quickly laid hand on his shoulder.

"No, please, don't…don't look at me now. I'm afraid you must think me…" Christine's voice faded away.

Erik sat frozen, both afraid to move and afraid to stay. Her small hand on his shoulder was comforting and warm, but utterly foreign at the same time. It was the first time anyone had touched him voluntarily in… _How long? How long has it been?_ He felt guilty for misleading her, letting her think his music was some kind of revelation when in fact it been an outlet for the pure desire he'd come so close to turning on her.

"Christine," he rasped. Erik reached up to bat her hand away, but instead she surprised him, grabbing his hand and twining her fingers with his. The warm feel of her flesh against his hand was his undoing. _How did her little hand become so strong?_

"Oh, Christine," he sighed. "You don't understand…that music was dangerous. You can't know what it means—" He tried to pull his hand away, but she only tightened her grasp.

"Can't I?" she interrupted, her voice holding the slight hint of a challenge. "I've heard people talk…some of the other girls…I think I do know what it means. That's why I'm grateful—it's not…I'm not…I don't have to be…I am still me, in either case. It does not determine what I am." She sighed. "I know I'm not explaining it well, but…does that make any sort of sense?"

Erik kept his hand still and thought a moment. He was confused; no, it did not make sense. Or perhaps it did.

_Oh hell. Is she…or we…is she talking about herself? Her body, her…_

He felt foul for even thinking of such of things, but she stood behind him, discussing it not as something of shame, but as a secret they shared. He groaned to himself, feeling his own body grow even stiffer in response to the thought.

_What is she doing?_ _Why is she telling me this?_ Erik clenched his fist. She could not understand what she was saying. Or at least what is sounded as if she were saying.

Erik leapt from the chair and stepped away. "Stop," he gasped. "Stop, Christine, please."

He turned as he heard her moved around the chair. "Why?" she whispered. Her quiet voice held the same hint of challenge as she advanced on him.

Erik backed away until he hit the wall, the same wall he'd forced her to the night she unmasked him. Still she kept coming, stripping him of his defenses as she had that night. But these defenses were not material—and were all the more fragile for that.

As she moved slowly towards him, he felt another surge of desire as he watched her slowly move towards him, belt of her robe accentuating the curves above and below her waist.

_I'll show her why_. His hands clenched at his sides, his breath coming in short hitching gasps. She carefully moved within his arm's reach. At any moment now, he could grab her by the throat and choke the life out of her for teasing him so- he could pin her to the floor and rip the covering from her body, and she would be powerless against him.

_Does she not understand what sort of monster she is dealing with?_ His golden eyes narrowed. She would learn, but tonight it would be a different sort of blood he spilled. He pictured her pinned beneath him, the light from the fire dancing across her white skin, her face…her face contorted in terror and fear as he lay atop her.

Erik closed his eyes, turning his face away from her, as if he could make her disappear by sheer will. He was a magician- he should be able to perform this one trick when the safety of them both depended on it. _No_, he thought, clenching his fist even tighter. _No, I will not…I cannot…Go away. Go away, please, __**please**__…_

Haltingly, Christine reached down for the hand he'd so carefully offered to her earlier. Her fingers brushed tentatively over his fist before grasping it firmly with a confidence she did not feel.

_What…what if he thinks me wanton? What if he thinks…_Tears started in her eyes. She'd die if he ever thought those crude things Raoul's friends had called her tonight.

_What if this is what he wants? I know it is._ Somehow, she was certain he longed for this, longed for a simple touch. But she was unsure of how to go about this, how to comfort him without offering more than she was ready to give.

She lifted his hand and turned his wrist over, wanting to see the veins whose pulses reflected his heartbeat, wondering if it raced like her own. She pushed his sleeve back slightly and bent her head to study him.

A wild tangle of scars stared up at her, faded but still visible. Still ugly. She could not make out the throb of his heartbeat beneath the marred flesh. Christine glanced up at his face, still turned resolutely away from her. Her breath stirred the tiny hairs that grew on the normal skin above the scars, as she hovered, uncertain.

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Erik froze when he felt Christine's fingers clasp his hand, her flesh warm, almost hot, against his cold skin. He had not replaced his gloves after he'd played; part of the glorious experience of playing that piece was the feel of the keys under his fingers, the ivory like smooth, cool, satin. Like the satin of the wedding dress he'd bought for her.

His mouth moved, but his throat was dry and closed. Any thought of hurting her was gone now, replaced with fear.

_Please God_, he prayed. _Just… _He wasn't sure if he prayed for her to release him or prayed for her to stay just like that, gently holding his hand, her small fingers warming his.

Erik did not resist when Christine slowly raised his hand and turned it over. She remained still, her breath moving over the pulse point there, over the scars that marked him.

_The scars_. He'd forgotten them. He waited in resignation for her to drop his hand and turn away in disgust. What a fitting punishment she had devised; how wonderfully cruel. He felt anger stir in him once again. He had not asked for her to take his hand, _particularly_ his ungloved hand.

_I did not ask for any of this!_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Christine felt the tension increase in the hand she held.

_I've angered him_, she thought wildly. She didn't know what she had done, but she could sense she was dangerously close to losing him, that he was about to pull away from her. His lips, the lips that had been moving silently, were now drawn back in a snarl.

_He will turn on me. Oh, no…_

She acted on instinct, dipping her head and pressing her lips to the inside of his wrist, moving them gently along the marks, not wanting to cause him more pain.

Erik started, she felt it, but continued to move her mouth against the inside of his wrist. After a moment, she glanced up and the fear on written in the lines of his mouth wrung her heart. His eyes were still closed, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow after every gentle touch. The hand she held was still clenched in a tight fist.

She trailed her mouth down the back of his hand, enjoying the contrast of his cool skin against her warm lips. Christine turned her attention to his knuckles, kissing down his index finger towards the tip, hoping to loosen his fingers so that they would twine with her own.

Erik was confused—she was supposed to turn from him in revulsion, but instead she had changed the rules, the entire _game_. He was at a loss. Their interaction had followed a careful pattern for so long, he could not find a response.

Her mouth moved from his wrist over his hand and down to his knuckles. Unconsciously, he moaned in response. Christine was startled this time, scraping his middle knuckle with her teeth.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…" she stammered, raising her head. Erik shook his head fiercely, not trusting his voice. Christine studied him a moment. His eyes were still closed, but perhaps the hand she held was a little looser.

_Should I continue?_ she wondered. Christine laid his hand against her cheek a moment before her lips resumed their work. Erik moaned again, and she smiled.

_She is willing…she is touching me, of her own will…_Erik marveled. All thoughts of grabbing her, showing her what he, a monster, was capable of were gone, replaced by a simple, innocent sensation that also incredibly intimate. Thankful tears streamed down his cheeks, working their way into his mask. He felt her repeat her ministrations to each finger before the cold wave of reality hit him.

_She only came after the music…only after you assaulted with that horrible music_. Erik's euphoria vanished. She must still be under the influence of his _Don Juan_. This was not truly Christine.

"Arrrghh!" Erik jerked his hand away as if burned.

Christine glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised. "What—?"

He shoved her back. Christine stumbled and tripped, falling to the floor.

Erik took two long strides towards the piano and began to rip the scores that rested there, knowing that even if he destroyed the copies of the music, it would still be in his mind. _You've corrupted your own angel_, he raged to himself. _Turned her into something almost as foul as you are_.

"Erik, what…what is..?" Christine pushed herself up into a seated position. "What did I do? I—"

"I not like those fine gentlemen your young man associates with," he snarled. "I don't want some sort of whore who allows herself to be seduced by a bit of music." Erik, in fact, had no qualms about using music to sway Christine's emotions. Or so he had thought. But to see his angel so polluted angered him. They were both disgusting.

Erik picked up a delicate vase and flung against the wall. He had only himself to blame. After all, he had played that piece tonight. He braced himself against the mantle and groaned. The tenderness she'd shown was baseless. Christine had been under the influence of a drug, just as if he'd poisoned her. She was supposed to be better than that.

She was supposed to be better than _him_.

Christine pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, trembling. He was frightening her now. She rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks. Was she destined to hurt every man she touched? Her Papa worked himself into an early grave to support her, Raoul had turned to loose women, and Erik seemed to hate her now that she had gathered up her flimsy courage and approached him as a man. In trying to appease each of them, she had only driven them further away.

She would be alone again, a frightened child once more. _Dear God, no_, she prayed. _Do not give me some glimpse of comfort, only to take it away. It is too cruel_. _You are a merciful God, show some compassion_.

"You think me a whore," she whispered. She buried her face in the cradle of her knees a moment. "You think me a whore." She looked up abruptly, her voice louder, stronger. "You've had no problems seducing me using music _before_! You've been doing it relentlessly for _months_ now!" she spat, scrambling to her feet, wanting to face him as an equal. She had meekly accepted more than her share of insults tonight, but something in her refused to let her cower now. It hardly mattered if she angered him; she had already thrown away whatever regard he may have had for her with her shameless behavior. Being hurt, killed even, would be better than returning to the despair she had known without her angel.

Erik jerked his head around, his gold eyes glowing. With his arms braced on the mantle, his muscles rigid with anger, he was a threatening sight. Christine was challenging him in his most menacing form: the Phantom. He pressed his lips together into a thin line.

"Go to your room," he hissed, turning his gaze to the fireplace.

"No. You called me a whore," she said, stepping forward and twisting her lips cruelly around the word until they were a strange reflection of his misshapen ones. Christine thought she saw him flinch, and taking a perverse pleasure in his pain, repeated her words. "A _whore_. By God, Erik, you _will_ answer for that!"

Christine was unsure how, exactly, that would be, but she would find a way. She folded her arms across her chest, and paced in agitation. "So who is the bigger fool—the one who spends months seducing—"

He whipped his head around to glare at her again.

"Yes, _seducing_," she continued. Her tone sounded almost mocking. "Could you possibly think I did not notice?"

Erik bent his head. _Yes_, he thought. A part of him had hoped she had not realized how he used the music to manipulate her. Then when she remained unresponsive, he could comfort himself with thoughts of her naïveté, tell himself she simply did not realize what he wanted from her. That way it was ignorance, not rejection.

He had constructed a whole world, a fantasy word. Now she was coming after him, hunting him as she tore his dreams down around him.

"I did notice," she stated, more quietly this time. "And not only that, I allowed it to continue. I did nothing, _nothing_ to stop it."

_What? _Erik was puzzled; he could hear her pacing behind him, but did not dare turn to question her. "Perhaps that was wrong of me," she continued. "Almost certainly it was wrong. But…I did not want to stop. Neither of us turned back. And I see now there is no good end. If I…if I do not response, I ignore you, your pleas, your…_needs_…mine… I hurt you," she whispered. He could scarcely hear her words. "I hurt us both." She hadn't realized the truth of her words until they left her mouth. "But if I succumb, I am a whore."

"I was wrong tonight," she said, shaking her head. "If I do not respond to a man, I am…all manner of vulgar things. And if I do, then I am a….a...," she fluttered her hands, unable to say that word again. "You said so yourself. I'm a _thing_ to be used and then despised. And if you, of all people, feel that way…" she sighed. "I thought that perhaps I could just _be_." Her outburst drained of all emotion. She didn't have the words or the tools to fight this battle anymore. It was pointless in any case, a battle she could not win. "I was wrong." She dropped her arms to her side, defeated. With heavy footsteps, she made her way towards the dim glow of the few candles still burning in her room.

_It's finished now_, she thought. All of the pretense was over. She only had to dress and make her way back to her cold little flat, and she'd never hear from him again. After this, she could not, _would _not, sing again in his opera house.

_Will he find someone else?_ Her legs shook beneath her at the thought.Someone braver than she, someone who was not caught between the dreams of her childhood and the adult world...someone _worthy_, who would recognize what he offered before it was too late? The bitter taste of loss sat on her lips, but still, she hoped that he would. That such a woman existed and that he would find her. Christine would be lonely, but she would not sentance him to more of such pain. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to draw strength and comfort from her own embrace.

Erik painfully turned his head to watch her go. "Christine…" His voice was barely a whisper. "Christine…" It was more a sigh than an attempt to get her attention.

She stopped at the entry to her room, but did not turn around.

"Oh, Christine," was all he said. But it was enough.

Christine turned. Shakily, Erik pushed himself away from the mantle. He avoided looking at her, keeping his head bowed as he slowly approached. Strange, she was only halfway across the room, but she had never seemed so far away. His posture was one of submission as he bowed his head before her.

"Forgive me," he rasped, kneeling at her feet. "Please." He laid his hands on his thighs, digging his nails into his flesh. "Please forgive me… so much…so much you don't even know. Oh, Christine…" His body shuddered as he quietly sobbed.

Christine looked down at him, a forlorn, cast-off figure at her feet, his usual majesty gone. She sank to her knees before him and put her arms around him, bringing his head to rest on her shoulder.

Christine didn't know how long they stayed kneeling on the floor, her hands gently stroking his hair. His sobs quickly ceased, but she could still feel wetness at her shoulder.

When the feeling of stiffness grew intolerable, she raised her head and looked around. The fire had, in essence, died, and the few candles that still burned in her room gave little light to the gloomy parlor. It was a quiet secretive place. Christine was reluctant to move—why did she ever fear his touch? She wanted to hold him for hours, but she was cold and stiff, her body demanding that she get up.

Christine leaned back slowly. Pins and needles shot through her calves, and her knees ached. Gingerly, she got to her feet, offering him her hand.

At her movement, Erik jerked away, scrambling backwards across the floor. "It's quite late," he said. Christine could hear the agitation under his matter-of-fact tone. "You must be quite tired, and you are to return to the opera in the morning." He climbed to his feet, ignoring her hand, uncomfortable under her steady gaze. "I will prepare a sleeping potion, if you like." He took two uncertain steps backwards, avoiding her eyes.

"Well," he paused, drawing himself up and instinctively wrapping himself in authority. "Goodnight, then."

"I'm not ready for bed."

"But," he turned to the piano to avoid her eyes, "you must be tired, and you have recently been ill."

Christine wavered. She was tired, but she sensed that if she obeyed his command now, they would once again be locked into the roles of teacher and pupil. She knew he was comfortable in that role, but he also wanted more. Until tonight, he had been too uncertain to press the matter.

She had been unsure as well.

"Sit with me, just for a little while?"

Erik stood awkwardly at the piano. "I'll play for you instead," he said, seating himself. "What would you like? Brahms, perhaps?" He began to play softly.

Christine sighed and picked up the blanket that had occupied the sofa since her illness. Wrapping it around herself, she moved to stand behind him, and put her hands on his shoulders.

He immediately stiffened.

"Please," she murmured. "Just for a few moments…"

Erik sighed heavily, his fingers reluctantly slowing on the keys. He took his cape off, draping it neatly on the back of his chair before seating himself. _Just let me remember how beautiful it was to be with her_, he thought. Hopefully she would retire soon and leave him to the bliss of his memories, the feel of her small body curled protectively over his. He could die happy now after knowing such tenderness.

"No." Christine shook her head, interrupting his thoughts. "I want you to sit next to me." She settled herself in the middle of the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her.

He bent his head in defeat. Being close to her was sweet, beyond sweet, but he was afraid she would burn him if he got too close. He would have thought he'd be rapturous at the thought of sitting so near her, but he was afraid his passion for her would ignite him like a torch.

Dear God, he feared her. He didn't want to burn.

Carefully, he sat between her and the end of the sofa and laid his clenched fists in his lap.

"Would you like to share the blanket?"

"No, thank you."

"You must be cold."

"I am used to the cold."

"Oh."

After a few moments of silence, Christine leaned over and rested her head on Erik's shoulder.

"Put your arm around me," she urged softly. "Please? I'm cold."

Erik drew a shaky breath, lifting his arm and cautiously laying it across her shoulders. Christine reached up and laced her fingers with his.

_She's holding my hand_. He leaned down and let his cheek rest against her hair, not even resenting the barrier of his mask. She responded with a slight squeeze of his hand and Erik relaxed, tears of gratitude clouding his eyes. He did not understand how they had come to this, but she was resting against his hateful body. For these few hours, he refused to think about what would happen when she returned to the opera tomorrow. _And to that boy…_

The pair sat in gentle silence, Christine absently stroking the back of his hand with her small thumb. "Tell me a secret." Her voice was quiet, sleepy.

"A secret?" He shook his head. "You know all of my secrets." _Except for those that are too horrendous to tell_.

"Tell me something no one else knows, then. A secret from you heart."

A secret from his heart? He thought, turning over forty some-odd years of memories.

"I'm an abysmal tailor."

"What?" Christine looked up into his face, startled.

"It's true." He shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot even sew a button. I send out all of my mending. It's the one thing I haven't been able to master."

She laughed. It seemed incredible there was anything Erik could not master if he were determined to do it. "And do they file the orders under O.G. or Erik?" _His face is so near_, she thought hazily.

_Her mouth is so pretty when she laughs_…

They didn't know who moved first, only that their lips brushed together lightly, hesitantly, before springing back as if they had been shocked by an electric current from one of his experiments. Christine moved first the second time, and they gingerly brought their mouths together, each unsure of the other. They gave each other short, gentle kisses that slowly became longer. He instinctively moved his tongue forward slightly, just enough to taste her lips, and was surprised when her mouth opened, allowing the tip of his tongue to slide inside. The analogy to another act was not lost on him, and he growled in his throat as he explored her briefly before reluctantly withdrawing. To Erik's surprise, her tongue followed his, tasting him as he had her.

Once the kisses started they didn't seem to end, even when they had thoroughly explored each other's mouths. Christine moved her lips in a slow progression alongr what of his jaw line was not covered by the mask, up to his ear, then down his neck, trying to identify what exactly he tasted of, unable to draw herself away from his heat, his scent.

Somehow, she made her way into in his lap. Erik wound his hands in her hair, carefully moving it aside to stroke her neck with his fingertips. He found her ear and traced the soft curve, toying with the small earring in the lobe, a gift he'd given her. He let his fingers trail across her throat, noticing her shudder as he did so. Erik froze, waiting for her to push him away, but she only squirmed a bit, then seemed to press herself closer. One of her hands moved to caress the back of his neck. Taking her gestures for assent, he let his touch move down her throat to the soft hollow between her collarbones. Pressing lightly, he could feel her pulse.

Inspired by his touch, Christine moved a hand from the front of the formal jacket he still wore and slipped it inside between his shirt and waistcoat. Her kisses slowed as they sat in the dark, feeling the rhythmic beats of each other hearts. She nuzzled his neck, drowsy but content.

"Erik," she whispered, on the edge of sleep.

"Hmm…"

A soft snore answered him, and he smiled, feeling strangely drugged and languorous himself. He should be wide awake, aching with desire as her weight pressed into his pelvis. But this had been enough, this tentative exploration, and he had no other desire tonight than to cradle her while she slept.

Morning would come soon enough, and the dream would be over.


End file.
